Since first being published some 15 years ago I have written lots of poems and at the moment I'm writing my second story book.
Here is a collection of six I have selected for you all about thinking or awarness.
Bouquet
A little brown at the edges,
where once all crisp and white.
The strong stems still lie straight.
the bow not quite so tight.
The leaves have begun to wilt,
but not given up the fight.
Flowers resigned to their fate,
grasp on with all their might.
The years may have passed.
Memories now dreams at night.
The bouquet though like his bride,
to him, still a handsome sight
by Janet Bosson
Paradise
The gate latch opens, in they walk.
Humans, trampling along every fork.
With cans or crisp rappers that fall,
others, with dogs or maybe a ball.
All to have fun, to let off steam, shriek!
or maybe it's solitude and peace they seek.
Whatever it is they all gather for,
they tend to make the place an eyesore.
But when the dusk comes,
and the gate latch locks.
It's time for the birds,
the squirrels and fox.
The trees whistle and
chat up the mice,
As the park returns to paradise.
by Janet Bosson
Memories
What is a memory?
A snapshot of time,
a photograph stored,
like a vintage wine.
What is a memory?
It is where we pine,
it's heartache or laughter,
and solace of kind.
What is a memory?
It's the past all signed.
a lifetime in pictures,
our future to find.
What is a memory?
Loved ones we've lost,
or maybe! never met,
all there still embossed.
A sense we can see.
Smell, hear and feel.
So that is a memory?
But what is it's point!
It's our life our self,
"Our Soul" and "Our mind"
That because of dementia,
some just can't find.
by Janet Bosson
Silence (This thing called Tinnitus.)
Embracing the melody of silence.
Seeking the solace within.
Diving into the depths.
Only to find,
This thing called Tinnitus.
An endless symphony, of sound.
A ceaseless rhythm
that never fades,
beating the seconds away.
This thing called Tinnitus
The mystery, of a phantom noise,
That wakes the bewitching hour.
Creeping into dreams.
This thing called Tinnitus,
Twenty four relentless hours,
a circle without end.
The whisper that will not yield.
The echo that will not sleep.
This thing called Tinnitus.
by Janet Bosson
The Spark
It's Not the Storm that
brings me down,
but sudden noise or violent sound.
A cupboard slams,the coffee spills,
and i'm back amongst the hills.
A car backfires, an angry tone,
and i'm no longer here alone.
The past comes rushing sharp and fast,
the present's gone, the moments passed.
A shadow moves, my heartbeat climbs,
i'm trapped inside those other times.
So small the spark, yet fierce the flame,
it calls me back and speaks my name.
by Janet Bosson
The Ringing That Devours The Night
In my room I try to rest,
but there's this ringing in my chest.
An endless chime that will not cease,
a shadow stealing my release.
It hums and whines, it twists and bends,
a song that never truly ends.
It haunts my hours, smooth and sly,
and will not ever say goodbye.
It seeps into my midnight dreams,
distorting light with wicked schemes.
It drowns the hush I long to keep,
and follows me from wake to sleep.
And round the clock, the sound will stay,
through every night and weary day.
No rest, no pause, no sweat release,
it's only aim my inner peace.
by Janet Bosson